


Chisel

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft decides to grow a beard. However no-one likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chisel

**Author's Note:**

> This actually turned out into more of a character study of Mycroft then anything else. And it turned out decisively more angsty then imagined. Hmmmm actually I hold this one dear to me, I think I've finally bonded with Mycroft. Oh and dedecated to [](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/profile)[**blooms84**](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://turante.livejournal.com/profile)[**turante**](http://turante.livejournal.com/)  because they both love Mystrade. A lot.
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own. Sadly. D:

**Chisel**

  


Mycroft Holmes adjusted his tie, smoothing down a strand of hair insisting on being uniquely out of place and brushed away miniscule particles of dirt from his shoulders.

 

The morning ritual would never change. It was a sacred ritual Mycroft meticulously stuck to, finding the regime both satisfying and necessary. In his line of work, appearances were everything. And despite his abhorrence towards the cliché but ever present exterior discrimination, Mycroft found that it was something he could not change.

 

Appearances were everything in his line of work.

 

Which was why he vigorously stuck to his diet, why he used four different types of moisturiser in the morning and two before bed. Why his suits could cost more than a man’s worth and his shoes scrupulously shined.

 

Appearances were everything.

 

However it did not mean exceptions could not be made.

 

 **The Assistant**

 ****

Anthea said nothing the morning Mycroft did not shave. Nor did she the day after or the day after until the slight stubble had morphed into a form of fuzz upon his once smooth cheeks. He liked to think this new look made him appear different, a little more sophisticated. He liked the idea of appearing as some sort of Victorian aristocrat, his umbrella in tow and pocket watch at the ready. All which was left was the top hat and cloak but all in good time. These things could not be rushed.

 

However said thoughts were only ventured into mind at such private moments Mycroft could barely grasp at. He barely entertained them long enough to even consider them more than just fleeting fancies. Childish fantasy. Whimsical whims. They were nothing.

 

He did, however, want the beard.

 

Anthea quirked her lips in a small private smile once they were seated in the car. The two week holiday in which he was so generously granted (despite having the power to increase it at his own pleasure) was nothing if not gratifying. Despite the continuous conduction of meetings from Anthea’s Blackberry or the numerous laptops he had at his disposal, Mycroft felt thoroughly relaxed, which was certainly a nice change. Bringing himself back into society however, proved more of a challenge than he first assumed.

 

“Well, what do you think?”

 

Anthea smiled, her eyes glued to the miniature, mechanical brain in her hand. However her left shoulder had tensed ever so slightly and her pinkie finger tapped thrice upon the back of her Blackberry. A nervous twitch no doubt, Anthea only did it when nervous. Which wasn’t often, Mycroft noted proudly, but happened nonetheless.

 

Instead of an answer, she avoided the question completely.

 

“You have a meeting in half an hour sir. And your brother appears to be on another case for the moment. Shall I up the surveillance for you?”

 

Mycroft rubbed his hand against the wiry hair on his face, smiling sweetly at Anthea in a bid to quell the sinking feeling in the pit of his gut.

 

“Yes, thank you Anthea that would be lovely.”

 

Anthea smiled quickly and diverted her eyes back to the phone in her hand; the only sound in the car, save the dull echo of the engine and the drone of the traffic outside, was the tapping of the Blackberry buttons.

 

 **The Mother**

 ****

“Yes mummy, Sherlock’s doing fine, I’m sure of it.”

 

Mycroft smiled at the aged woman before him, cradling the cup of tea and saucer in his hands, the delicate china so easy to break. He sipped at the hot beverage, relishing the sweetness, the sugar. Mummy always had a nice cook; Audrey was most certainly a lovely woman. Mycroft made a mental note to send her a basket of flowers when he could. She always did make the loveliest truffles.

 

Mrs Holmes nodded and placed her teacup on the saucer clutched within her delicate fingers. She pursed her lips slightly and peered at Mycroft from her chair, legs crossed over and a hand twitching in her lap.

 

Mycroft said nothing.

 

“And how are you dear?” Mrs Holmes asked, perfectly nonchalant. Her eyes shifted to his cheeks, eyeing the new development with poorly covered disdain.

 

Mycroft could feel his heart sink slightly but hid it, replying calmly.

 

“Perfectly fine mummy.”

 

The woman nodded, her eyes shifting to the powdered teacake seated on the china plate on the table. It was for Mycroft no doubt, but the man would not touch it. Not in front of his mother. He was not like her, nor like his father. Fat clung to him like glue. He could either be very slim or very chubby depending on the progress of whatever diet his mother deemed it necessary to put him on.

 

It took his all not to glare at the cake.

 

“Oh, I’ve forgotten to tell you Mycroft darling,” his mother stated almost dreamily. Something stale hung in the atmosphere, utterly distasteful. “I’ve let the cook go. Do remind me to find a new one, will you?”

 

No truffles then.

 

 **The Brother**

 ****

Mycroft had learnt from a young age how to ignore Sherlock’s crabbiness. As his older sibling, Mycroft had deemed it necessary to ignore Sherlock during such moments. The man could act like a petulant child at the worst of times.

 

Mycroft also knew how to banter with Sherlock, how to deflect and reflect, how to strike when needed and when to back away. He knew when to win and when to lose, and yes, at times Mycroft did indeed lose with the intent of either fooling Sherlock, avoiding further confrontation, or simply making the other feel better. It was an instinctive device wired into him since the moment he saw Sherlock in his mother’s arms.

 

Or perhaps it was from the moment he was born. Mycroft couldn’t help but feel he was meant to be the older brother, no matter what the circumstances.

 

After all, he was awarded with an infinite amount of patience which was most certainly a virtue at the best of times.

 

Sherlock never intentionally tried to hurt Mycroft. And if he did, Mycroft was apt in disguising his emotions carefully as not to pummel Sherlock with guilt the man would not know how to cope with.

 

So when Sherlock laughed at him that day, it was nothing new for Mycroft to school his features into one of nonchalance or disinterest.

 

In all honesty, and if Mycroft is allowed one moment in his life to be honest, Sherlock’s laughter hurt. Not terribly painfully. Just a little niggling sting, a small cut on Mycroft’s heart.

 

“What on earth is on your face?” Sherlock crowed, his cupid bows lips curving upwards in a barely suppressed smile. Mycroft hated those lips when he was young. And he isn’t proud to admit it was jealousy. Sherlock was a beautiful man, flawless both mentally and physically. Many fell at the man’s feet, crooned over his looks, the luscious curls and the sharp cheek bones. And Mycroft watched from the side lines with a passive smile, content at watching their mother’s friends or any other for that matter admire Sherlock for his genius and beauty. And although Mycroft was indeed smarter and perhaps more sensible, it didn’t matter.

 

He was just Mycroft.

 

He would then realise he was indeed not fine, the inattention toward himself stinging, and would slink to the kitchen and straight into the pantry. And Audrey’s truffles would be no more.

 

People said Mycroft was fat because he was lazy.

 

But what people failed to see, to realise if they bothered to look pass appearances, was that Mycroft was neither fat nor lazy.

 

He just wasn’t Sherlock.

 

Mycroft stretched his lips in a beam, hiding the tightness beneath it. “You don’t like it?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “It looks as if you’ve plastered some poor dead rodent onto your face.”

 

Mycroft fingered the handle of his umbrella nonchalantly, wondering whether Sherlock knew over fifty ways to kill someone with an umbrella.

 

Probably not.

 

And Mycroft smiled at the thought.

 

“Well I like it,” Mycroft replied softly. Sherlock laughed, the noise piercing the quiet living room of 221b.

 

“Rebelling are we Mycroft? Isn’t _that_ a first?”

 

Mycroft’s smile tightened and he began to recite the fifty methods in his head like a sacred prayer.

 

 **The Doctor**

 

The nice thing about John Watson was the simple fact that the man was _nice_.

 

And polite.

 

Which in this circumstance was rather more annoying than Mycroft let on.

 

John watched as Sherlock laughed, feeling sheepish, embarrassed almost and he said not a word. He didn’t need to though. In fact, it would have been better for both Mycroft and John if he had stayed quiet.

 

After all Mycroft liked John. But his pride was hurt. The last thing he wanted was for John to express his distaste for Mycroft’s choices as well.

 

Sherlock however, had other ideas.

 

“John please tell me you don’t think Mycroft should keep the thing!” Sherlock chortled, grinning maliciously although Mycroft knew he meant no particular harm. Sometimes Mycroft looked at Sherlock and saw the boy he used to be, merely in men’s clothes.

 

Sometimes he saw a man.

 

Sometimes something else entirely.

 

John shifted uncomfortably and smiled tightly.

 

“No I think it’s fine. Whatever Mycroft wants.”

 

Sherlock snorted, grinning to himself and Mycroft beamed in reply. John rubbed the back of his neck and excused himself.

 

It didn’t take a genius to know he was lying.

 

 **The Detective-Inspector**

 ****

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, resisting the irritable urge to run a hand across his cheek. It had become somewhat of a nervous twitch, a self conscious reminder of his decisions. A reminder that Mycroft was not travelling the safe route this time.

 

However it became harder to remember why he had decided to abandoned said route when every day Mycroft caught a questioning eye.

 

Today was no different and he tapped his umbrella impatiently against the ground, smiling tightly at his glaring brother. Once again Sherlock had found himself in a spot of bother and it was left to Mycroft to sort things out. Usually he would have had no qualms bailing Sherlock out of trouble; it would give him the wonderful privilege of chiding the man on his life’s choices.

 

But Sherlock was being more of a cock than usual and Mycroft, despite knowing the petty voice in his head only spat nonsense, did not want to help him.

 

Why?

 

Well, Sherlock had quite inexorably hurt Mycroft’s feelings.

 

Not that he would show it.

 

Mycroft pursed his lips, swivelling his head to catch a better glimpse of Sherlock shouting at what appeared to be DI Lestrade. The detective, as exasperated as ever, dismissed Sherlock with an irritated wave of his hand and turned away, kneading his forehead in frustration. Sherlock flung the ghastly orange blanket from around his shoulders onto the ground and stormed off, John Watson in tow.

 

Mycroft sighed heavily and Anthea tapped away on her Blackberry, as quaint as ever.

 

There was nothing more for him here and Mycroft blinked, turning to stare off to the side, watching as the surrounding police bustled and hovered around the scene like bees. They buzzed too, the quiet chatter almost inaudible amongst itself, folding and blending into one stream of noise Mycroft could barely stand. White noise. He always hated white noise. It reminded him of static, of emptiness which created the recurring thought of madness. Not that Mycroft was mad, he most certainly wasn’t. Perhaps a self-deprecating martyr afraid of his inner voice.

 

But definitely not mad.

 

That was Sherlock’s department. Although Mycroft did not fear the prospect of Sherlock being mentally unstable.

 

All the best were.

 

He blinked at the police, his eyes shifting toward the darkened sky, wondering distantly why on earth Sherlock chose to create such a scene at night. Mycroft would have answered his question himself had his train of thought not been interrupted by none other than the DI Lestrade.

 

“Evening,” Lestrade greeted, squinting slightly before blinking and tucking his hands into his pockets. Mycroft could hear Anthea’s heels clicking against the ground toward the car.

 

“Hello Inspector,” Mycroft replied, smiling sweetly. “Ah, my sincere apologies for Sherlock’s behaviour today.”

 

Lestrade shrugged, a noncommittal gesture of either irritation toward Sherlock or lack of care for the apology. Mycroft didn’t dwell on it too much.

 

“No need. After six years you’d think I’d know what a git your brother was by now, wouldn’t I?”

 

Six years of knowing Sherlock, five before John Watson was introduced to the scene. Five years of knowing Mycroft as well, however only vaguely. Mycroft did not often intrude with Sherlock’s work; the other didn’t take too well to the idea. Which was why both Lestrade and Mycroft only spoke on rare occasions such as these. Not that Mycroft minded; Lestrade was rather an interesting character when he wanted to be.

 

Mycroft chuckled, nodding in agreement and tapped the umbrella against the ground. “Yes well, I hope you will accept my apologies anyway. And if there’s anything I can do to assist you, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

 

Lestrade grinned and rubbed the back of his neck, watching the nearby police work around the mess Sherlock had created. “I will thanks.” His eyes slinked back toward Mycroft, studying, almost scrutinising and it was all Mycroft could do not to blush.

 

It was odd, having the other gaze at him like so. They rarely interacted at all, thus this was an alien sensation. Not to mention Mycroft’s brief bout of self consciousness interfered suddenly. He really should have shaved. Then maybe it would have been easier to slip into the hazy facade many new well but could not recognise. He should have stayed behind the cameras.

 

Just as Mycroft was about to excuse himself, to leave, go home and shave the blasted fur off his face, Lestrade spoke.

 

“I’m sorry but if you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Holmes-”

 

“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft interrupted, smiling tightly, unsure whether he should have been afraid of Lestrade’s next statement or not. The detective’s lips twitched in an awkward smile that had Mycroft’s heart pick up a pace.

 

“Mycroft,” Lestrade continued, a faint hue of red mantling his cheeks. “If you don’t mind me saying but you’ve...” He trailed off, gesturing toward his cheek and Mycroft sighed inwardly, feeling his gut twist miserably. That was it, the beard had to go.

 

But instead, he laughed, rather nervously he’d admit, and grinned emptily. “Ah yes, the beard, Thought I’d give it a go but no, it’s going to go.”

 

Lestrade’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No, no, no that’s not what I meant- I wasn’t taking the piss or anything, I just thought....” Lestrade floundered for words, trailing off slightly. “Well...It looks good on you.”

 

If Mycroft had expected anything at all to come from Lestrade’s lips, it most certainly was not that.

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

 

Lestrade flushed and rolled his eyes, holding both hands up in some sort of resignation. Mycroft suddenly wished he hadn’t sounded so affronted and his hands twitched nervously.

 

“You look good,” Lestrade repeated, grinning boyishly. “You know, with the fuzz.”

 

Mycroft, despite the slight bewilderment he was feeling, smiled in amusement. “Fuzz?”

 

“Don’t be like that, the beard thing you’ve got going on,” The detective replied, smiling as he watched Mycroft from the corner of his eye, half his attention on the police behind them and half on the other. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

 

It took his all not to blush and even then, Mycroft found the notion had to ignore. His heart thumped loudly in his ears and he could feel the throbbing in his neck, his little pulse point racing a mile a minute as Lestrade stood there, grinning rakishly as if nothing had happened.

 

Mycroft licked his lips, clearing his throat and fighting hard to stamp down the blush threatening to mantel his cheeks.

 

“Well,” he started, feigning nonchalance despite his thumping heart. “It’s going to go anyway. I fear I’ve looked like an idiot for the past week.”

 

And in all honesty, Mycroft truly believed this. It was odd really, a queer situation he had found himself in, not because he had decided not to shave for a few days but simply because as a man used to following what others wanted, used to obeying someone or something, most often the tiny voice in his head that played his insecurities like a broken record, this brief bout of rebellion was quite uncommon. And Mycroft did not know how to deal with it.

 

A simple answer would have been to shave and put this moment in time behind him, erase it from existence if he had to.

 

But the rebellious, chaotic and slightly eccentric answer said no. Leave it. Ignore Sherlock. Ignore mummy. Ignore yourself.

 

And watching the other, Mycroft had come to realise that in many years, perhaps even in his entire life, Lestrade was the first person to ever compliment him sincerely.

 

Suddenly the calm, collected persona Mycroft carefully wore day in and day out of his life, with work, with people, with family, cracked. Just a small crack, small enough to chip away at if anyone bothered to acknowledge its presence. But it was there nonetheless.

 

Mycroft blinked at Lestrade, squinting as he studied the other carefully. He was certain, on some level, that Lestrade knew, he was just choosing not to show it. Or perhaps he was, if that tiny smile gracing his lips was anything to go by.

 

The image of DI Gregory Lestrade wielding a chisel came to mind and his cheeky grin forever embedded itself into Mycroft’s mind.

 

Lestrade shrugged. “Eh, do what you want it’s your face. But just so you know,” he smiled, the gesture reaching his eyes and making Mycroft’s heart thud faster and faster until he was certain it would give out. “I quite like it.”

 

Mycroft left the crime scene that day, feeling both a little sick from his epiphany of some sort and a little in love. Or perhaps it was the other way around, he wasn’t quite sure.

 

He knew one thing though, as he climbed into the black car, a palm rubbing against his cheek absentmindedly.

 

The beard was going nowhere.

 

And as he fell asleep that night, the razor tucked safely away in the back of his bathroom cabinet, Mycroft found himself dreaming of greying detectives and chisels. 

 

Fin

****

  
A/N- I've most definitely bonded with Mycroft now. Yay! Hope you liked it. <3  



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